The Calabrian Corner

Who Said Mama's Boys?

Calabrian sons have somewhat of a reputation for being their mama's favorite child. In fact, many of us have
sisters who swear that is the case. But it really isn't, and there are countless non-Italians who will argue
that Italians do not have an exclusive hold on special mother-son relationships. The late singer Townes Van
Zandt, for example, alludes to this in his famous song Pancho and Lefty, which gained wide popularity with the versions recorded by
EmmyLou Harris and subsequently by
Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. The very first
verse ends with the following lines:

You weren't your mama's only boy
But her favorite one it seems;
She began to cry
When you said goodbye
And sank into your dreams.

No sirree! The bond that Italian males have with their mothers is no different than that of their non–Italian
peers, even though unmarried Italian sons are notorious for living at home well into their adulthood. But this
is, in fact, to keep the family unit together. Indeed, many an Italian parent has said to a son, upon expressing
his need to move out: 'but why do you have to leave? This is your home. This is where you belong'.
Furthermore, there are always reasons for why that bond develops the way it does. Sometimes it is as
simple as the emotional needs of the mother; and sometimes it is based in the son's response to his mother's
needs; or it can also be rooted in the complex psychological and emotional structure of a son raised amidst
the pull of two cultures competing for his attention—a situation for which an immigrant mother is usually
ill–prepared. The common factor, of course, is always the basic instincts of love and loyalty to one's
family—and this dynamic can sometimes express itself in 'creative' ways (although the parent would probably
label them 'rebellious').

Having said all this, and as is the case with other ethnic groups, I firmly believe that the primary relationship
for an Italian son is with his male parent. The father–son bond enjoyed by well–known celebrities
like Walter and Wayne Gretzky, Tiger Woods and his late father (and many, many more), is mirrored in
household after household; and where it isn't, I daresay that it is envied. Indeed, I firmly believe that
we men, as much as we love our moms, either already enjoy, or strive for or even crave a strong bond with our
dads. In one of my novels, In the Twilight
of the Moon, a son is asked to eulogize his father on behalf of the family and he starts off with the
following words:

'I'd never trade my daddy,'
Said the little boy one fine day;
'He says I am a prince
And that my kingdom's far away.'
His child–like innocence made me smile
And I began to say:
'Would you trade your daddy if he weren't a king?'
The little boy said: 'No way!'

As we boys turn into men (whether 20 years old or 80), that sentiment never leaves us. The fondness, the need
to admire, and, as we age, the need to look after our dad are central themes in our lives. Perhaps it is
a recognition of our extended self; or perhaps it is due to the fact that human beings are basically decent
creatures who value and appreciate the sacrifices our parents make for us; or perhaps it is as simple as Harry
Chapin's words in his famous song Cat's in the Cradle
whose refrain consistently has the son repeating 'I wanna be like you, dad'; and, eventually, the father, in
his senior years, awakens to the following realization:

'And as I hung up the phone
It occurred to me,
My boy was just like me,
He'd grown up just like me.'

Despite the recurrence of this powerful theme, men have always been programmed to be emotionally strong, perhaps
as a consequence of our responsibility to look after our families. Regardless, there is certainly no overabundance
of literature on the father–son bond, although I believe that has been changing in recent years. I, too, in
my aforementioned novel have made it a primary theme. In particular, contrary to the widespread belief that Italian
sons have a special relationship with their mothers, I argue that what we really want is the approval of our
father—and it sometimes manifests itself in 'funny' (or, to use my previous word, 'creative') ways, for, quite
often, a genetically–inherited pride seems to rise up in displaced locations. In my case, I would be less
than honest if I did not admit that, even as an adult, it was important for me to know that my father appreciated
(or, preferably, admired) my achievements. And if he were to withhold his acknowledgment, I was deeply
disappointed—although I would never let on publicly.

These kinds of dynamics strike me as those of the proverbial 'child within the man' and I have bounced this thought
off many of my male friends—both Italian and non–Italian—and, to a man, they have all expressed
the same sentiment. One of my Scottish friends, in fact, went so far as to say that he believes that all tension
between him and his father was rooted in the deep love he felt for his dad, and the expectations he held were
likely mired in his need for parental approval. I suppose that, on a subconscious level, I must subscribe to
that theory as well since at least two of the brothers in my novel search for themselves through the turbulent
relationships they have with their father.

Please check back periodically for further musings from The Calabrian Corner. Ciao for now.

Note:If you identify with my feelings on Italian families, try checking out my new ebook, In
the Twilight of the Moon, which deals with Italian family dynamics, including aggression, depression,
the seeking of parental approval, unrequited love, and dementia in elderly parents. It can be previewed
through Amazon Kindle.